On Progress
by Pontmercesque
Summary: Fraternity. Progress. He was young and stupid, and had by chance been born in an epoch strolling backward. But there would be new Revolutions, in France and elsewhere, and in the mind: wherever the tyrant reigned uninhibited.


Yes, really, this story is about unnamed characters who probably featured in about one five-hundredth of the novel and were more or less irrelevant to the plot. Perhaps I'll follow it with an epic tale of sewer planning and seduction. This, however, is inspired by one of my very favorite passages in the book. I'm a little unsure; you can tell by the unnecessarily long author's note.

But you may decide who the boy is – or whether it matters.

_On Progress_

And all of a sudden, he bolted upright. Something was squirming in his stomach, and he didn't know why. He peered cautiously over the edge of the bed and found what had awakened him: he had knocked a book from the mattress in his sleep, and now it was splayed out painfully on the floor. Leaning over to pick it up, he ran his fingers over the threadbare embossed cover. As he had only recently begun to learn his letters (he kept a chart in his pocket of all the combinations of vowels that looked one way and sounded another, and would add to it from time to time when he encountered a new monster) he could not have deciphered it on his own, but he had learned to recognize certain phrases by their form, before he could grasp the logic behind them: his name and the town where he lived, and the street he lived on; words like 'bread' and 'cream' and 'eggs' and 'sous' and 'francs' and 'Condorcet' and 'Marat'. And this volume was his favorite, mostly, really, because it was his old master's favorite, and the latter read it with such gorgeous restrained affectionate intensity that he couldn't help finding the words attractive. It thus took on a kind of material beauty, too, and in the white shade of mid-morning the silver leafing regained its healthy sheen.

There, the thing in his stomach was back. He doubled over abruptly with the force of realization. His master – no, the old man would never have accepted that title, and probably in fact found it repugnant, but there was some undefined element of the sublime in his presence that nevertheless compelled the boy to think of him as such, privately – his master was not there. His master was still outside.

His master, he realized, was dead.

When he identified this concept, his panic began to subside. After all, his master had calmly and kindly prepared him for this. He straightened himself up and moved noiselessly out to the porch.

His master was sitting in his chair by the door, just as he'd been on the evening before. Apart from the odd inclination of his head, there was little to suggest that he no longer held himself willfully upright. His eyes and lips were closed, his expression overall placid and dignified, so that the boy was fleetingly tempted to run into town and fetch a painter to render him a final portrait. In the back of his mind, he saw a series of woodblock images: heads in baskets, heads on pikes, heads seized by the hair in the sweaty fingers of Sanson, dreadful and ugly, unworthy deaths; and he thought, here is a great man who has died a great death.

He noted that his master's hands were resting one across the other, posed as he would not have done naturally. This, he found, was the only indication that the bishop had been there the night before, and he could not help resenting the good priest, just a bit, as he wondered what might have happened if a storm had come.

He sat beside the dead man for a time and traced the path of the sun through the thick screen of leaves and branches surrounding the house. Then, all at once, he rose, went back inside, and began methodically to gather books from the shelves, furniture, and corners, and pack them into his thin traveling sack. He did not think his master would mind, because he was going to use them. He was going to learn them, absorb them, digest them, and reflect them. The old man's ideas were no longer obscure; they had become quite possible – even likely. Inevitable, the boy imagined, with a smile. Fraternity. Progress. He was young and stupid, and had by chance been born in an epoch strolling backward, but a grand length of future was uncoiling before him. There would be new Revolutions, in France and elsewhere, and in the mind: wherever the tyrant reigned uninhibited. He – mankind – would improve where the dying generation had left off.

His scan of the house complete, his bag laden and contorted almost to bursting, he made a final round to tidy the remaining items before stepping outside again. The old man had been there all night, and could undoubtedly bear to wait just one more hour, while the boy ran home to deposit his inheritance. He suspected he would not be returning. Before he left, he took one of the dead man's hands in his own, squeezed it firmly, and held it for a long time. He then replaced it in a more natural-looking position. Feeling a little embarrassed, he turned and set off through the overgrown wood, casting just one look back at the People's representative.


End file.
